We met at the artist's house. My friend Frank had returned home to Western Australia, fleeing some drear and brutal employment. In the easy ways of the seventies, he was sure of a welcome, friendship and new work. He brought with him a young woman, another shit-job refugee. And that's how Lynne, a pint-sized powerhouse, came into my life. Forty-five years later, on Tuesday January 18, 2022, she departed this life, but our conversation continues. Partly in the shards and artefacts of creative exchange. Partly, in the evidence that her characteristic sense of mischief appears to be inextinguishable. To wit, when I scanned the photographs I'd selected for this mosaic account of our lifelong friendship, the machine scanned both sides. I'd not bothered to look at the back of the images, hadn't registered there was anything to read, but there on the screen in front of me were Lynne's words in her own handwriting. Surprised/not surprised.
Lynne lived out West for a good few years. Her babies were born here. So many memories. Dinner parties. Veggie gardens. Music nights. I remember her wedding. The tough times. The discovery of her talent for pottery.
She was a country girl. And I never met a more hardworking woman. Strong. A survivor. Generous, too.
When she headed back east she left me with a gift: my first car. The Major. I didn't have a licence, but I began taking lessons with Frank. My brother stapled some tin over the holes in the floor and I was off and running.
She was a country girl. And I never met a more hardworking woman. Strong. A survivor. Generous, too.
When she headed back east she left me with a gift: my first car. The Major. I didn't have a licence, but I began taking lessons with Frank. My brother stapled some tin over the holes in the floor and I was off and running.
The long and winding road
Over the ensuing years there were letters, the occasional photo of her growing boys, stories from the Pottery. Then, as often happens, we lost contact as our lives went in different directions. But among my treasured memorabilia I kept an enchanting doodle Lynne did years ago. It spoke to me so strongly that I mentioned it is one of my published short memoirs ("Conversation with Quin"). It proved to be a little elf map, promising her return.
that leads to your door
Fast forward to 2015. So many changes. Such a different world. Facebook is a curse and a blessing of the 21st century. I can forgive it a lot, though, because of how precious those rare yet very real blessings are. In Darlington in 1977, I was composing university assignments on a manual typewriter. Close to forty years later, Lynne and I reconnected via social media. Later that year I was planning my 60th and sent out event invites near and far. I was assuming those at a distance would like to be there "in spirit", so to speak.
Not so Lynne. Bugger me (nothing but the old Australianism will suffice), to my astonishment and delight Lynne told me she was going to attend in person. Thus ensued an epic journey that might have come straight from our shared youth in the seventies. Talk about back to the future.
Lynne and her mate (nicknamed "Tigger") drove an old Ford postal van converted to a camper all the way from the mid-north coast of New South Wales to my home in Fremantle. What's more, owing to the limitations of the van, they drove the entire way in third gear. Pure hippie gothic. And in a reprise of her own arrival all those years before, Lynne brought a stranger trusting there would be an open welcome, and so there was. Tigger became a new friend.
Not so Lynne. Bugger me (nothing but the old Australianism will suffice), to my astonishment and delight Lynne told me she was going to attend in person. Thus ensued an epic journey that might have come straight from our shared youth in the seventies. Talk about back to the future.
Lynne and her mate (nicknamed "Tigger") drove an old Ford postal van converted to a camper all the way from the mid-north coast of New South Wales to my home in Fremantle. What's more, owing to the limitations of the van, they drove the entire way in third gear. Pure hippie gothic. And in a reprise of her own arrival all those years before, Lynne brought a stranger trusting there would be an open welcome, and so there was. Tigger became a new friend.
. . . owing to the limitations of the van,
they drove the entire way in third gear.
For some months, I had been admiring her latest artwork on line, and was deeply touched when she presented me with my birthday gift.
From that time onward, we stayed in close contact, supporting each other's dreams and visions. Championing each other's integrity. I saw her once more out West when she came to care for her brother in his final illness. She stayed a few days with us in our new home by the sea. More visits were planned. She was hoping to get back West later this year. We dreamed of turning up on the East coast in our camper van to see Lynne's off-grid paradise with our own eyes. Alas, it was not meant to be.
These memories have a life of their own. Lynne with music, art, pottery; me with writing and dance. In a larger sense we have both lived in the artist's house all our lives.
Through strange back roads, through dreams, through the ongoing creative life, our conversation continues.
These memories have a life of their own. Lynne with music, art, pottery; me with writing and dance. In a larger sense we have both lived in the artist's house all our lives.
Through strange back roads, through dreams, through the ongoing creative life, our conversation continues.
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